


Kissing Game

by aliencereal



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Begging, Ear Kink, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Established Relationship, F/M, Heavy Petting, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kissing, Kissing Games, Laughter During Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliencereal/pseuds/aliencereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair isn't ready to have sex with Tabris, but the temptation is torture.  Tabris finds a way to make it easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing Game

Alistair has a problem, and that problem is _sex_.

Because, Maker, he _wants_ it. He's wanted it from about age twelve onward, because puberty does not give you a break just because you live with the nuns preaching about the sin of sexual desire. But he isn't twelve anymore, he's twenty, and awkward excitement from low-cut blouses or feminine hips isn't his biggest issue these days.

No, that honor goes to Kallian Tabris.

She'd asked him to come to her tent. She would have willingly, _enthusiastically_ soothed the unending itch that self-pleasuring barely touches, given him an outlet for the frantic want her kisses light in his belly. She desires him openly and she had blushed so sweetly when she asked, smiling in a way both shy and determined.

And he'd told her _no_. Maker, he knows that was the right choice, that he isn't ready yet, but it's haunting him now. Tabris had understood, given him a quick kiss and told him she was perfectly happy to wait for him. It had been a balm for his shaken nerves that she hadn't been offended. They'd been awkward around each other during dinner that night, but things seemed to go mostly back to normal by morning. The return of her easy laughter and crude comments had been a huge relief.

Except that now there is an open offer of sex any time he wants it. With Tabris, who smells like leather and has to stand on her toes to kiss him and smiles broadly when she catches him watching her and laughs at all of his stupidest jokes. He wants her so badly he can barely breathe _all the time_.

The fact that all he'd have to do was ask, or maybe gesture vaguely, is going to drive him mad by week's end. She was already the central point for his desires, but now she is absolutely all he can think about.

It's worst when they're in camp. Tabris is sitting by the fire with her hair pulled free of the little ponytail she usually keeps it in, the metal parts of her armor removed to leave her wrapped in tough leather. She isn't even doing anything terribly sexual. She is, in fact, darning one of her socks, swearing under her breath every time she pricks herself with the needle.

Alistair is miserably hard anyways, unable to leave the spot where he’d settled at her side out of fear that she’ll notice. He has his knees pulled up to his chest to hide his shame, but he can’t keep himself from watching the delicate movements of her fingers. She’s being careful with the newness of the task (Alistair had watched Wynne teach her only a few nights beforehand), tending to her work with single-minded attention. He’s seen Tabris give _him_ that look, frustrated with her own clumsiness and determined to get it right. She looks at him like that right before she murmurs sweet words just for him or presents him with some thoughtful gift.

And now he’s spoiling the innocence of it by thinking that she’d looked like that just before she’d entwined their fingers and asked if he might, perhaps, keep her company for the night?

He is a weak, _weak_ man.

Alistair drops his head to rest between his knees, resisting the urge to groan his displeasure. He just needs a minute to be ashamed of himself, thanks.

Tabris, of course, doesn't give him that.

“Alistair?” She questions, just before her hand settles on his shoulder. He tilts his head just enough so that he can glance at her, and he finds her eyebrows knit in concern, needlework abandoned on the ground.

“’m fine,” He grumbles, tucking his head further back into the safety of his knees. He knows she won’t let it go, and she doesn’t. Instead of returning to her sock, she starts rubbing light, comforting circles into his back with her open palm. He’s guiltily glad he’d taken off his plate armor so he can feel the gentle touch. Even apart from the little thrill it shivers into his belly, he’s deeply grateful of how willing she is to touch him, to show him little gestures of affection. He hadn't realized how badly he craved the attention until she’d started giving it to him.

“Stomachache, darling?” She asks, her tone sympathetic.

Alistair briefly considers lying and telling her that dinner hadn’t agreed with him. It’s happened before (not everyone in their little party is a good cook), and she’d let him rest his head in her lap for the rest of the evening, petting his hair and telling him funny stories to distract him from the discomfort. It was the most enjoyable stomachache he’d ever had.

It had also made him very eager to someday meet her cousins, who most of the best stories were about. But that’s not really relevant to his current predicament, so he puts aside the thought for now.

“No, I—Actually, Tabris, can I… Can we talk? Alone?” He asks, wanting to beat his head into something when she looks _nervous_. Maker, he’d be nervous too if she’d said the same to him. “It’s nothing bad!”

She does relax a bit at his reassurance, and she nods, tucking her sewing away and getting to her feet. Alistair curses silently; he hadn’t considered the bulge in his trousers when he’d blurted that out. It’s not exactly _subtle_. He has a split second of panic before he decides to just go for it, hurriedly standing up and just _bolting_ into the dark, away from the campfire. Tabris makes a surprised noise and follows after him. Zevran whistles suggestively; Alistair wants to _die_.

“Alistair, what’s gotten _into_ you?” Tabris demands, hands on her hips, when she catches him at the very edge of the camp. She sounds grumpy, but in that specific ‘you’re worrying me, stop that’ sort of way. Alistair starts pacing, running a hand through his hair. Maybe if he keeps moving she won’t notice the state he’s in, although at least the panic is helping with that a little.

“It’s—It’s about what you said before. About, ah, spending the night,” Alistair can’t bring himself to look at Tabris’ face, afraid of what he might see there. Annoyance? Hurt?

“Did… you change your mind?” Tabris asks, voice drawn out to a careful slowness. She’s deliberately taken emotion out of the statement, which Alistair knows is for his benefit but doesn’t actually make him feel better.

“No, no, I’m still not ready, it’s just—Maker’s _breath_ , Tabris, I can’t stop thinking about it!” He admits, all in a rush. He stops pacing, forcing himself to look at her face and _oh_. Okay, yeah, she’s staring at the front of his trousers, biting her lip in a way that is _so_ very tempting.

“Oh,” Tabris breathes, nodding as if agreeing with some statement neither of them has said. Alistair feels himself blushing all the way through his ears.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence where Alistair wonders if it’s possible to die of shame, before Tabris starts talking again.

“Alistair, have you ever played the handkerchief game?” She asks, her voice soft and wanting. It’s like she’s suddenly having a different conversation with him entirely.

“What—no, I haven’t, what do games have to do with anything?” Alistair asks, frustrated and lost. Even in the dark, he sees the way Tabris ducks her head shyly, looking at the ground like it might have answers for her. She’s nervous, she shouldn't be nervous, he’s the one being a bloody moron.

“It’s… a kissing game, that the unwed young people played in my alienage. The goal was to get the other player to… find release, without taking any of their clothes off. You’d tuck a handkerchief down your trousers so you didn't ruin your clothes,” Tabris explains, shifting uncomfortably where she’s standing and glancing back at the fire, as if afraid of being overheard. Alistair’s mouth has gone dry with the implications.

“That’s… That’s a _game_?” Alistair manages to force out, and Tabris laughs a little, a helpless, small sound.

“It’s different with elves, sometimes you could win just by sucking on somebody’s ears. Nobody got pregnant, everybody stayed virgins for their wedding nights,” Tabris coughs uncomfortably. “It’s the only thing I’d ever done with anybody before you. It... kept things under control. I just thought… maybe we could try it? Take the edge off?”

Alistair wishes he could say he gave it some real thought, considered the options and made a proper choice.

What he actually does, though, is whimper as his cock _throbs_ at the thought of sucking on her ears until she finds satisfaction under his mouth.

“ _Yes_ , holy Maker, _please_ ,” he groans, and Tabris grabs him by the back of the neck, pulling him down into a frantic, artless kiss. Alistair moans into it, and Tabris moans back, like she’s answering him.

“Let’s move away camp,” Tabris pants when she finally pauses to breathe. Alistair can only nod, struck mute by the way her thigh is nudging at the hard lump in his trousers. He’d noticed the little pulses of _oh shit yes_ , but it’s only now that he’s not distracted by Tabris’ lips that he realizes they were coming from him humping her leg.

He’s incredibly embarrassed, but it feels too good to stop, and when she pulls away from him to march them further into the forest, Alistair actually catches himself thrusting into thin air once before he gets control of himself.

The second there are a few trees between them and the firelight, Tabris pushes Alistair down, sitting him at the base of a tree and crawling into the space between his spread legs. She doesn’t hesitate, latching her mouth to the side of his neck and giving him sucking kisses that make it hard to breathe. His hips squirm against the dirt and the trunk of the tree; he desperately misses the warmth of her body against him.

She indulges him as soon as she notices, moving her hand from where it had settled on his chest to massage his hardness through his trousers. Alistair _sobs_. Tabris makes a noise like she’s trying to calm a spooked horse and squeezes him, hard enough to feel so damn good that Alistair nearly bucks her off trying to get more.

“Please, please, oh, _please_ ,” he breathes, nearly a prayer, his voice wrecked like he’d been crying. The pressure feels amazing, too much but not enough, and there’s a little stab of irrational fear when the kisses she’s lining his jaw with slow down, her hand firmer but less quick in its movements. He’s terrified she might pull away.

“Don’t stop, Tabris, _please_ don’t stop, I’m almost there—“ He begs her, and Tabris makes a little noise of distress that spikes the panic.

“Shhh, Ali, it’s okay, I won’t leave you hanging,” She whispers soothingly. “I was just looking for—“

Alistair cuts her off with a guttural moan when her thumb finds the head of his cock through the layers of fabric, and Tabris trails off into delighted giggles.

“ _There_ we go. Doesn’t that feel better, darling?” She teases, open affection in her voice. Alistair can’t respond, because a swipe of her thumb drags the fabric just right against him and pushes him over. His whole body goes tense with the first pulse of unbearable pleasure, and Tabris strokes him through it, cooing endearments the whole way. She doesn’t move her hand until he starts breathing out pained, overstimulated whimpers.

Tabris lets him breathe for a minute, kissing his face and toying with her own hair, and when he opens his eyes, she’s smiling at him in the dark. She laughs and nudges him with her nose.

“You look like you’ve taken a blow to the head. Speaking of which, I rather hate that I know what you look like with a head wound, love. Stop getting those,” She teases.

The afterglow does nothing to prevent the violent rush of affection that rises in Alistair’s chest.

He leans up and fits his mouth around the base of one of Tabris’ ears to keep him from doing something stupid, like making a sexually motivated love confession. He’s heard women are not fond of those. And it isn’t like he isn’t rewarded for the effort; Tabris makes a noise like she’s been kicked in the stomach and fists her hands in Alistair’s tunic.

The elves she’d done this with had gotten her off just like this, or at least, that’s what she’d implied. Alistair decides to try being a step above the curve, silently grateful for Zevran’s unwanted, crude advice. He uses one hand to stabilize her neck (she leans into him, and that is _really_ cute), and pushes the other against the seat of her pants. It takes him a few firm sweeps of his fingers to find the place that makes her buck into his hand, but the _noises_ she makes throughout the whole process are incredible.

Alistair grinds a knuckle into the spot that made her squirm and Tabris claps a hand over her mouth just in time to muffle a scream. She’s shaking so hard he thinks she might come apart, the waves of pleasure making her hips stutter against his hand.

She collapses against him when she’s done, panting hard and nuzzling at his neck and chest like an affectionate cat. Alistair laughs.

“You’re like a cat, Tabris. Ha! A _Tabby_ cat,” He jokes, not even minding when she swats at him.

“Go ahead, Alistair, tease me all you like. Joke’s on you, love. We forgot the handkerchiefs, and _yours_ was messier than _mine_.”

Alistair freezes.

"Well, shit."

(Totally worth it.)


End file.
